


214 - Finding a Home in the McCanns

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dad Van, F/M, Fluff, Hero Van, Reader-Insert, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 18:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17391161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “a fic where vans gf sees van masturbating and this doesn’t have to be smutty at all, and she feels really insecure about herself because she feels like a failure by van reassures her and stuff?” and “Van meeting reader on a train/subway?” from @tokyyo-narita and “reader is like quite well spoken (not posh or anything, just like a very proper accent) and then the boys take the piss out out her a bit because she starts to sound/ speak like van?”Bonus mini-request for the reader starting to smoke and Van being (hypocritically) against it.





	214 - Finding a Home in the McCanns

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Although not explicitly discussed, there are mentions of past abuse/neglect. Reader runs away from home and there are good reasons for that, but it’s not explored in the fic.

The map didn't help. You studied it again and again, each time only serving to confuse yourself more. The bag on your back was heavy, your feet hurt, and the feeling of dread and anxiety sitting low in your stomach was itching for attention. Fuck it, you thought, except not in those words because you'd never, ever swear. Cussing would lead to punishment, and you'd become excellent at avoiding that. You turned away from the map and decided to board any of the trains. Surely any destination would be better than what you were leaving behind.

In the carriage, you surveyed the other people but avoided eye contact. It was very late, so there were only a few people on board. You weren't used to strangers, so all of them seemed frightening. Again, still better than who you were leaving behind.

Nobody seemed to notice you, except a boy sitting a few seats behind. You could hear the music coming from his headphones. He was bouncing in his seat, too much energy and excitement for something. There was a guitar case at his feet and a backpack sitting on top of it. When he came and jumped into the seat in front of you on his knees, leaning over the back of the chair to speak to you, you had been twisting the sleeves of your dress. A nervous habit.

"Hi!" he said. You stared at him, completely confused and afraid and unsure. "Um… What's a pretty girl like you doing on the tube this late?" Good question. There was a very clear answer, but it seemed stupid to tell it to him. You had never known how to lie though. Failing to answer, he studied your face for a second. "Sorry… I'll mind my business," he said, quietly. He sat back down after taking your silence as a warning.

The boy didn't put his headphones back in. He played on his phone for a while, maybe messaging people. Then, he suddenly was back on his knees looking at you again.

"It's just… I don't wanna seem like a creep or anything, but you look a little… lost or something. Are you okay? You getting home okay?"

Kindness.

The boy was pure kindness and you'd never, ever felt that before. Your eyes welled up with tears. His face snapped into regret.

"Fuck! Sorry. Don't cry. Do you want me to…" he pointed to his seat. His movements were a little frantic. "I don’t know what to do when people cry. If you were a baby I'd just make funny faces at ya… Fuck… Sorry."

Born too empathetic, his stress was causing you anxiety. You wiped away your tears and shook your head at him, trying to let him know it was okay. He hadn't done anything wrong. He waited as you took a deep, shaky breath out.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"No! Don't be sorry, love. My fault. You okay though? Know where you're going?"

You looked up at him. Bright blue eyes. You'd never seen anyone with eyes like his. Everything you had learnt about the world was telling you that you were unsafe, that this boy was going to be your downfall. However, you were on the run from everything you had learnt, so you shook your head slowly. His eyebrows pulled together.

"No? You don't know where you're going?" Another shake no. "That's okay. I can help you. Where ya tryna get to?"

"I don't know," you whispered in reply.

"Ya running away from home or somethin'? How do ya not know?" The lack of reply told him that he'd guessed the truth, even though it was accidental. "Oh," he said, and it would have been funny except it wasn't. "Um… Okay. How old are you?"

"Nineteen,"

"Okay. You know you don't need to, like, run away then? You're an adult at eighteen…"

"It's…"

"Complicated?" You nodded and watched as he chewed his bottom lip. "So you don't got nowhere to go?"

"I can't go back," you replied, which wasn't an answer but told him more than he needed to know.

"Okay. Um. Me mum and dad have a bed and breakfast. They let my friends stay sometimes, so… um, if you want… you can come home with me and we'll get you a nice cup of tea and a warm bed, yeah? Um, figure it all out in the morning."

The boy had offered you his home before his name.

There was no reason to trust him, but it seemed more of a risk to ride the tube until you were kicked off, then fend for yourself on the streets. So, you followed him home and felt comforted by his constant chatter. He said his name was Van, kind of. He was in a band and what kind of music did you like and what do you mean you don't know how have you not heard of The Killers have you heard of The Streets no oh my god have you been living under a rock love Mike Skinner is amazing when my band makes good we're gonna sell out stadiums and he kept going and going in a stream of verbal consciousness until you reached his house.

Van sat you down at the kitchen table and boiled the kettle. A woman appeared, dressed in a fluffy nightgown looking annoyed.

"It's not what it looks like," Van said to her quickly. "Met her on the train. She don't got anywhere else to go."

He introduced you to each other and she told him to go get a blanket for you. Van had sensed something bad had probably happened to you. Mary though, she saw that bad had definitely happened, for maybe your whole life. In your quietness and in your flinching you gave away all the secrets you had swallowed in fear. So, you stayed the night.

In a room that usually made them money, you slept for free and without nightmares.

…

You were awake before the sun, but still not the first up. The bed and breakfast was one giant house, and the floorboards all around squeaked as Van's parents moved about preparing breakfast for their guests. You were unsure what you were meant to do. You could get up and venture out into the house. You could sneak through the window and disappear down the street and into the village, silently grateful for a home for the night. A gentle knock on the door stopped either of those options from coming to fruition.

"Y/N? You awake?" Van's voice came through the door. It was then you realised he was waiting for permission to come in. Privacy was a foreign concept to you.

Your voice was shaky when you spoke. "Yes… Um. Come in."

Van appeared, hair messy and in flannelette pyjama pants and Stereophonics band shirt. He was carrying two mugs of tea. Carefully, he put one on the bedside table, then sat in the small armchair in the corner of the room.

"How'd ya sleep?" he asked.

"Good,"

"That's good… Um… So… Ma has a lot of questions. She's just doin' breakfast for the guests, but after she'll make somethin' for us and you can talk to her and stuff. Is that okay?"

You paused; heart racing and skin going cold, the dread came back. All you could do was nod. "What's she going to ask?"

"Just like… where your parents are and if they need to know where you are now,"

"No!" you called, cutting him off loudly. The rise in volume startled him.

"Okay, yeah, no. It's okay!" he replied immediately, standing and crossing the room. He stopped himself before he reached where you were sitting cross-legged on the bed. "No parents… that's… She won't like, call them or anything. We just wanna know you're… okay and stuff. Like, how to help,"

"I should go," you said, standing and grabbing your backpack. You'd slept in your dress, too afraid to change in an environment you didn't know. You quickly tied the laces of your boots, Van watching helplessly.

"No! Y/N. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out," he said as he followed you out of the bedroom and down the hall. You were almost through the house when you came around a corner fast, colliding with a body. You yelped loudly, terrified of consequences. A hearty chuckle and hands on your shoulder keeping you upright.

"This must be the little runaway," a man said. You were frozen in place. Van appeared at your side, pushing the man's hands off you.

"She don't like to be touched, I don't think," Van said.

"Sorry, love. Where you off to in such a hurry? Mary's got pancakes cooking. Come on," the man said, walking around you and Van and back into the house.

"That's my dad. You can call him Bernie," Van informed you, taking a backwards step in the same direction as his father. He motioned with his hand for you to follow him. "Come on. If you still wanna go after breakfast, I'll walk you to the train station myself, yeah?"

You sat at the round kitchen table and slowly cut up your pancakes. You'd never had pancakes before, so had to wait and watch how the other's ate. Van drenched his in maple syrup. Mary had lemon and sugar. Bernie went with jam. When you'd not made a move to dress your own, Van noticed.

"You don't know what you want?" he asked. You looked at him, but didn't agree or disagree. Somehow he knew though. "Here," he said as he poured syrup on your plate, but in a smaller quantity than his own.

When there was a lull in the conversation, you could sense the attention had shifted to you.

"Y/N, honey…" Mary started. You kept your eyes firmly glued to your empty plate. "You're nineteen, same as Van, right?" You nodded. "You've finished school and everything?" Again, you nodded. You'd been home schooled with other children from the community your parents belonged to. "Okay… Well, that means you are allowed to… set up a life for yourself. You don't have to run away with only a bag of stuff,"

"I don't have anything else," you replied without thought. The backpack sitting at your feet contained the few white dresses you were allowed to wear, underwear to be washed weekly, a teddy bear you'd had since birth, and a small folder of documents you'd stolen from your father's study on the night you escaped - birth certificate, schooling record, anything you might need to prove your existence. You'd thought it all through. The only thing you knew you'd need but couldn't get was money.

"Don't have anything else?" Van asked. "What about your other clothes and CDs and stuff?"

You shook your head. "We weren't allowed music."

He looked physically pained at that reality.

"So, what was your plan?" Bernie asked. "Do you know anyone else in town? Were you heading somewhere?"

You shook your head at all of the above. There was a silence and you waited for one of them to ask the inevitable. Mary sighed and looked at her boys.

"Well, little miss," she said as she served you another pancake. "We were gonna start looking for some help around here anyway. Do you know how to cook or clean?" You nodded. They were all you really knew how to do. "Good. You can work here for room and board. See how it goes for a while, hey?"

Even if you had declined the offer, Van would have talked you into it between the house and train station. You didn't though. You nodded and were thankful that what you had thought was inevitable maybe wasn't. They didn't ask why you were running. They didn't ask why you flinched or why you hardly spoke and when you did why it was so structured and proper. All they asked was if you wanted more tea.

…

It took only a couple of days to fall in love with Mary. As you followed her from room to room, making beds and serving scones, her warmth and practicality were comforting. A few weeks into staying with the McCanns, you fell in love with Bernie. You'd been watching from the doorway as he and Van sat in the lounge room sorting through his old record collection. Their love was almost tangible, and you wanted to defy science and bottle the atmosphere and save it for later. Van was a different story though. You waited to fall in love with him but as each day went by and as they rolled into weeks and then a month, you realised you'd loved him from the very beginning. Slowly, word by word, touch by touch, you learnt what it meant to be healthy. Happy. Loved. To love. More than anything else, that is what you learnt.

Van tried not to love you too much, but his crush was evident from the first day. Mary and Bernie kept warning him away from you. You were too fragile, they said. You didn't understand what normal relationships were meant to be. You didn't know yourself. But, five months in, when a drunk Van stumbled into your room after a particularly good gig, you let him stay. He continually tried to reach out for your hand, to pat your hair, anything. Mostly you just giggled, but when he settled and began to watch you with hooded eyes, you watched back. You knew you loved them all. You knew what friendship felt like; what family felt like. Van was different.

By month seven Van begged you to meet his band. You went to band practice with him, sitting nervously on an old couch watching them play and swear and smoke. They were the exact type of people you had been raised to hate. But, you loved them. Love was your new default setting, the same as all McCanns, and you were happy in their company. You started to attend more practices, and the anxiety and nervously faded. The boys, once they figured out you were not as breakable as Van said you were, started to tease you for your funny sentences that lacked the same accent and slang as them. They called you Princess and mocked Van for being your servant, your lady in waiting.

"Alright. Fuck off, lids. Yous are just jealous you don't get to live with your super hot best friend," he said back at them all the time.

When you were alone, you tried to remember the exact way that Van would say 'super hot' and 'best friend' and you thought about how he could only speak of you with pride in his voice.

…

Twelve months of living with Van and you'd picked up his habits. Where the guys used to give you shit for sounding proper, they had instead started to make jokes about your decaying syllables and new-found slang.

"What was it, Y/N?" Larry asked. You'd not been paying much attention to him as you helped pack the car with amps and guitars after the show.

"What?" you replied. 

"The show, you said it was somethin'. What was it?" he asked again.

"Class?"

He laughed and looked at Benji, who nodded with a smirk.

"Fuck off," you told them, walking away to find Van.

"Imagine her swearin' a couple months ago!" Larry squeaked.

Van was out the front of the venue, cigarette between his lips. He pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead. The tobacco scented smoke used to make you cough, but you'd habituated to it quickly. The passive smoking turned addictive, and you had started to seek out your own secret cigarettes. You tried to take Van's from him but he held it well above your head.

"No,"

"Van! That isn't fair!"

"Don't want ya needing these like me. You're better than that," he argued, looking to the night sky as he inhaled and exhaled again. You pouted, and he would have given in if a carload of friends and equipment didn't roll up to the curb. Larry stuck his head out the window.

"Thanks for ya fuckin' help, mate," he called. Van grinned and flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter. He pushed you into the car where you squeezed in between a bass drum and Benji's hair.

Swearing. Speech pattern. Smoking. They weren't the only things you'd caught off Van. His crush on you had become completely requited, and although neither of you spoke about it, you'd pine for each other in equal measures. The rest of your social world - Van's friends, the girls you talked to in your therapy group, Mary and Bernie - they could all see it, yet it remained a weirdly unresolved thing for you and Van.

…

When Van had made enough money from the band, he bought a house. He'd gone about it in secret for reasons nobody understood. He picked up you, Mary and Bernie, then Larry and drove everyone over. As he got out the car, you looked at the others from your middle back seat position.

"What's he gone and done?" Mary said out loud.

You all followed him through the front door, marked with a number 7, and into the house.

"See, there's three bedrooms, so it's perfect," Van said.

"Perfect for what?" Bernie asked.

Van was bouncing on the spot, completely unsettled and very nervous. It was a mood none of you were used to seeing him in. It was upsetting you, and you stayed close to the edges of the empty rooms. Van's eyes flicked around his family, looking for a reaction. He was mostly watching you.

"Um, well. The smallest one is kind of near the back, so I can turn that one into a studio. Larry gets the room with the skylight, 'cause he's afraid of the dark,"

"Am not," Larry mumbled. "Just sleep better when there's some light,"

"Yeah... Then the biggest room is for me and Y/N."

The room went still. Larry held in a snort. Mary immediately looked to you, ready to help you if you needed it. Bernie made an amused face and was the first to speak.

"So, my boy, let me get this straight. You have spent all ya money on this house that nobody knew about, and you've just decided that these two have to live with you. Not only that, but this one," he pointed to you. "…that's only just come out of her shell after a life of God knows what, is just gonna share a bed with you? And you've not asked them how they feel 'bout it?"

Van nodded, but his trademark smile was gone.

"Larry?" Van asked.

"Ya gonna make me pay rent?"

"Keep doing my washing and won't 'ave to pay a cent,"

"I'm in," Larry said with a shrug. He was itching to see his room, but the drama unfolding was too entertaining to miss. Van looked to you then.

"Y/N…" he spoke softly, walking across the to-be-living room to stand in front of you. He held his hand up for yours, having learnt not to touch with permission if you were in a new situation. You took his hand and let him thread his fingers through yours. "Everyone said you were… too messed up or whatever, you know? So, I didn't do nothing about how I felt. But you're okay… or you're gonna be… And you're not made of glass and I don't have to treat you like that… I'm not telling you what to do. You can stay where you are if you're happy and it's what you need, but… I want you here. I think… that's what you want too, right? We're… something?"

More than anything, you wanted to tell him that he was home. He could build a house of ice in Antarctica and say 'this corner next to this pile of fish is your bed' and you'd happily curl up and fall asleep.

Van was saying 'I love you and I need you here' and you knew that. The rest of the room knew that. You wanted to say it back, but your voice had lost itself in the waves of love washing through your entire body. So, you did what you did best. A small nod, an intense gaze, and Van could breathe again. He laughed to himself and stepped back, but kept his hands to yours.

He looked over at his parents. "See? Nothin' to worry about."

…

Sharing a bed with Van propelled the relationship forward quickly. It had gone from glances across rooms, meaningful expressions exchanged, and unspoken agreements, to bodies tangled together for hours on end. At first, it was with pyjamas and innocent kisses on the head. Anything more would stress you the fuck out and send you crying out of bed and into the corner of the room. Then it blossomed into comfortable touching, racing hearts, arching backs. You trusted Van with everything, and your body was the last thing you could hand over; so, you did.

It took almost two years of knowing him to get there, but sex with Van helped you feel more normal. It added a playfulness to your relationship, and you did your best to use it against him all the time.

"If you give me a smoke, I'll-"

"Y/N, if you're about to literally sell your body to me for a fuckin' smoke..." Van laughed.

"You can't be angry 'cause it's your fault," you replied, leaning across the kitchen table, tapping your fingertips on the wood one at a time in quick succession. He scoffed, looked at you, then handed over a cigarette.

"That's not for free," he whispered as Larry walked into the room. You smirked and nodded.

…

Two years after running away from home, at the age of twenty-two, life was finally what it should have always been. You were always safe, warm and well-fed. You'd regained autonomy; a job at the witchy crystal store in town helping with that. Van wouldn't let either you or Larry pay rent, but you contributed to bills and did the shopping and it felt good to do something so adult. You had friends, both those that you'd inherited from Van, and the ones you'd made yourself through therapy or work or random people you'd met at the dog park. Sometimes you'd go with Van on tour, sometimes not. On the road you loved the mess and chaos and fun, and at home alone you loved the silence and freedom. It was all so perfect that something was bound to go wrong.

Your money was on Van's curiosity getting the better of him. Despite all the breakdowns and tantrums and regression to how you were before, he'd never straight up asked what had happened. Waiting for it, you had fully anticipated it to be the thing that broke you.

It didn't though.

Only a few seconds until you would have fallen asleep with Van running soft lines down your naked back, he cleared his throat.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" You weren't sure how you knew, but you knew. You squeaked out a small sound that meant yes. He didn't stop touching your skin, but you could feel his attention shift to one of the scars you’d been given. "Can you tell me 'bout it now?"

You stayed facing the wall for the entire time. As he listened, Van shifted closer and closer, wrapping his arms around you. Recounting the story of your life was only something you'd done three times. The first was in an individual therapy session, a month after starting them. The second was bit-by-bit in group therapy. The third, and maybe the last time you'd ever tell it, was for Van. He cried where you usually would. It was cathartic, and even though you hadn't done a thing wrong, somehow you felt forgiven after telling him.

So, no, telling him hadn't been the wrong to ruin the right. That had been a more strange thing, anchored deep in your self-conscious psychology. A fear that regardless of what Van said, you weren't good enough for him. That you weren't enough, full stop. He was larger than life and beautiful and sunshine and your literal hero. Surely, logically, he deserved a girl that matched that?

For the most part, you really did a good job at letting Van love you. And, for the most part, you truly did believe you were what he wanted. After all, why'd he bring you home like a stray puppy in the middle of the night if anything else was true? Why would he buy a house so perfectly suited to you? Why would he write songs and sing them for you?

Still, a little awkward moment splinted into that part of your head and reminded you that maybe you really couldn't ever be enough.

You'd been out with friends and had bumped into Larry. You laughed at each other, a little drunk.

"It's… Like… Does Van even exist without one of us at his side?" Larry said.

"What's he even do when we're not there?"

Parting ways with Larry and following your friends into another club, you couldn't stop thinking about it. Van said he'd just write songs, play Fifa, catch up on sleep. Van alone was a weird concept to think about at all. You let your curiosity, that had always been encouraged by him, guide you. Goodbye to friends. Uber home. You tiptoed through the quiet house. Where was he?

A light from under the bathroom door, you stood on the other side listening to the shower. It was a moment familiar to you. Van in the shower was an open invitation, and he adored it when you'd sneak in and stand under the running water. You slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open silently. You peaked through the steamy room.

The transparent glass shower door let you see him, naked and with his back to you. You paused as soon as you recognised the movement. One of his arms was out in front of him, hand splayed against the shower wall for support. His other arm snaked around the front of him. There was a rough, fast breathing you knew. The tension in the muscles of his back was a giveaway.

Any shred of logic in you went down the drain with the water washing off Van's body. Any ounce of self-assurance may as well never have existed. You stepped back, pulling the door with you; you accidentally slammed it. Stumbling down the hallway, you got as far as the living room before collapsing into a hysterical sob. It wasn't audible over your crying, but the shower went off and Van's voice called out after you. He appeared, a towel wrapped around his waist, asking what was wrong. He knelt down, knowing better than to try to comfort with touching in the first instance.

"Y/N… What's happened? Hey. Baby. Look at me," he begged, gently tapping the couch to try to pull your attention away from whatever it was on. "Y/N? What's wrong? Come on, talk to me. Can I-" he went to say 'touch' or 'hold' but you shook your head violently, flinching away from him. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. You gotta breathe though. Take a breath. Count it out. You know what to do. I'll get you water."

He left you to try to calm yourself; a strategy you'd taught to him. It was important for you to try to control your own emotions before anyone else. Within two minutes he was back on the floor wearing track pants and a grey t-shirt, holding out a glass of water. You wouldn't take it. He begged you to, and to stop him from talking you did but didn't drink. He sat, waiting.

It took almost ten minutes to stop crying. You were no less upset, but the hysteria couldn't be maintained. Your head was buried in a pillow, so Van couldn't read your emotion. There was just nothing for him to work with; he had no idea what had happened. Another few minutes and you had gone through a million thought processes that had all told you that you were not enough for Van. You could never give him exactly what he needed to be happy and satisfied. Your emotions would never be normal. Your love would never be unconditional. Your body would never be fully his to have and touch how he wanted. You would never be enough. With that conclusion drawn, imaginary evidence supporting it, you sat up suddenly. Van watched you move.

"Um… Larry's not gonna be home till tomorrow, so I'm going to sleep in his room," you said in a tone that was too calm.

As you stepped around Van and moved back through the house, Van followed.

"Wait. Y/N. What… Did I do something? Wait. Can we just talk about-"

"No," you said, turning to face him. You could see the pain on his face but it didn't make you think differently. "I'm fine. Sorry for freakin' you out. I'm going to bed now."

Each of your words was too calculated and Van was on the brink of panic.

"No. Babe. Wait!" But you closed the bedroom door.

If you closed a door and put a physical thing between you and the other, they knew not to break it down. The door would not be opened unless you were the one to move it. That was a strategy put in place by Mary within the first two weeks of you living with them. It didn't matter that in that almost-fighting moment that you wanted Van to rip the door from its hinges and tell you that you were the only thing that ever mattered to him. You couldn't have the (as you wrongly perceived it) luxury of privacy just for the fun it being taken away with love.

Larry's bed was cold and not your own and didn't smell like Van. Your sleep was plagued with nightmares, and a cold sweat drenched the sheets. 

…

When you woke and opened the door, needing to pee and needing a cigarette, you found that Van had spent the night on the hallway floor. He was against the wall opposite Larry's bedroom. He looked up at you, eyes rimmed in a sleepless red. He stood up as soon as you emerged.

"Do you want tea?" he asked, voice croaky. You nodded, and he walked away with comforting purpose.

In the bathroom, you washed your face and avoided looking at the shower.

The morning light had done something to calm you, to dampen the intensity of the emotion and return some of your logic. Not all though.

Van had poured you tea into your favourite mug and had it sitting with a thick slice of buttered fruit toast and a lit cigarette. You curled up on the kitchen chair and distracted yourself with it all. Van watched you carefully, looking for any indicators of affectivity.

"I think it'd be good for you to tell me what happened," he said. The cigarette was shaky between your fingers; Van noticed. "You're gonna have to help me out here, Y/N. Spent all night tryna figure it out. You went out fine. I called Shay and she said you left them happy. Then, all of a sudden, you weren't. I figure I haven't done anything, 'cause you're not angry. You seem… scared… and sad."

You finished the toast and cigarette, and held the warm mug between your palms. Your legs were pulled to your chest, feet curved around the edge of the seat. Chin resting on your knees, you looked over at him.

"I am," you whispered.

"You are what? Scared?"

You nodded and he looked hurt. "Of what?"

Looking away, you tried to look for words that wouldn't make your thoughts and fears seem irrational. That should have been an indicator that they probably were just that, but your brain was working with only half logic.

"I… um… When I came home you were in the shower," you started. Maybe if you could just recount events, he could fill in the rest. He nodded. "And I went to go in with you, 'cause that's…"

"What we do, yeah," he helped.

"Yeah… And, um, I opened the door and went to come in, but… but I saw…"

Van couldn't help but smirk. He knew whatever was happening wasn't funny, but the picture of a girl walking in on a boy masturbating in the shower was too much for his white boy brain to process. Output: smirk. It faded fast and you hadn't seen it.

"Yeah, then you…" he continued for you, pausing while looking for words that weren't 'freaked out.' You turned back to him, sitting up straight and nodding. "Okay… And you're upset now?" Another nod. You could see he was deeply confused.

"I just… don't know why you like me,"

"I love you. You know I love you. What does that have to do with…" but his sentence trailed off into silence when the pieces settled in place together, forming a picture. He moved out of his seat and dropped to the floor in front of you. He risked it and put his hands on your thighs, pulling you closer. "Baby… I… Okay, just before I say something dumb, let me just… make sure I get what you're sayin'. You saw me gettin' off and you think that's 'cause I don't proper love you, like you're not… all I need or whatever? Is that what's happening?"

You nodded, cheeks going red. Van looked relieved though.

"Fuck, baby! I dead thought something had like… happened, you know? Fuck. Okay. This is fine. We can fix this. 'Cause I love you and completely fucking worship you and even though I don't really know how to explain that… that," he awkwardly pointed to the hallway, to the bathroom, "…is unrelated to how I feel 'bout you and what you do for me." Van stopped talking to try to gauge if his words were having any effect on you. Your face was blank, but that was progress. "Like, it's like… you know when you really want some good tea, and you're dying for a cuppa, but all they got is that shitty type that isn't good? So you have it, and it's nothing much, but it's better than nothing. It's like that. You're the good tea, babe."

A smile of amusement formed on your lips. Van grinned in response. His metaphor was weird and a little unsettling, but it somehow both made sense and helped you feel a little better.

"I love you, Y/N. I love you when you're sad and go a bit weird. I love you when you're happy and nobody would guess anythin' happened to you. I love you when you steal my smokes even though I hate it that you smoke-"

"That's still your fault," you interrupted.

"Yeah, I know. And I love that. I love that there's bits of me in you. You use my words and smoke my smokes and my family is your family and I love you. Okay? I love that it took a while for you to trust me with you 'cause it means it's real. I love all the sounds you make when we fuck and I love how you taste and you will always just blow my fuckin' mind, okay? Don't need to be worried 'bout it, 'bout me, 'kay?"

You weren't exactly sure how you could recover from the most embarrassing and potentially strange reason for a breakdown ever, but Van made it easy. He laughed it off as you stood up and let him hug you. He whispered a string of dirty words together that combined requested that due to his sleepless night he was owed something, anything. You giggled and pulled him along to your bed. Washing Larry’s sheets would have to wait. 

…

Five years after meeting Van, three years after being together, one year after saying goodbye to Larry as a housemate, Van proposed. Three months after that, your belly started to swell and you didn't give it much thought until Van offhandedly asked if you wanted tampons on the shopping list. You looked up from where you were staring at your sparkly ring.

"What?" he asked as he circled the word 'bananas' on the list for emphasis. 

You dramatically pulled the paper from him and took the pen. Pregnancy test, in your painfully neat cursive handwriting.

Wedding plans were postponed until after the baby was born. As you walked down an aisle of confetti and petals, the seven-month-old crawled along behind you, trying to catch your lace train. When you arrived at Van's side, he swooped down and picked up his firstborn son and held him in his hands for the ceremony. A calm and well-behaved baby, he quietly babbled as you and Van committed to each other in front of your combined family.

Instead of fancy hotels in faraway countries, you opted for a honeymoon of blanket forts and delivered pizza. With your baby between you and your entire life ahead, you settled in to watch all eight of the Fast and the Furious films over the course of the weekend.

"I have a crush on Suki," you mumbled, partly asleep, partly glancing at the screen, mostly watching your happy baby watch Van.

"You would," Van replied with a snort.

You passed out before the end of the film. Van carefully tucked the baby in his crib, then returned to you, wrapping himself around you entirely. Content, sleepy, and completely in love, you rested well.


End file.
